


Get Help

by el_spirito



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Whump, gaby and waverly ship it, these boys, whumpexchange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-11
Updated: 2017-06-11
Packaged: 2018-11-12 16:15:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11165448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/el_spirito/pseuds/el_spirito
Summary: Illya and Napoleon have been captured, and escape is made slightly more complicated by the fact that Illya has been drugged and has only a vague understanding of what is happening around him.





	Get Help

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Written for Rocanono for the whumpexchange over on tumblr. I’m elspirito23 over there --come geek out with me about these boys and other assorted fandoms!

Illya came to consciousness slowly and blearily, like he was swimming to the surface only to find himself surrounded by fog. Someone was speaking to him and then a hand, heavy and warm, cupped his cheek. 

“Illya, hey. Are you with me?” 

Illya blinked, prying heavy lids open with much more difficulty than he was expecting, and was rewarded with the fuzzy outline of Napoleon Solo’s face, Illya opened his mouth, fully intending to tell Cowboy that, yes,  _ clearly  _ he was with him, then frowned when all that came out was a low groan.

“Hey, good, there you are."

Illya tried to roll his eyes. He wasn’t sure if he succeeded or not. Solo bustled around him, moved out of Illya’s line of sight and suddenly, pressure he hadn’t realized was there eased off of his left arm. He looked down, surprised to see that a handcuff had been released, dangling off the arm of the chair. Frowning, Illya turned to his right arm and flexed experimentally against the handcuff there. Pain shot up his arm, the clearest sensation he’d had since waking and he hissed under his breath, slurred out a swear word. Solo finished picking the cuff on his right hand and Illya immediately curled his arm to his chest. 

“Sorry about that, I didn’t have time to warn you,” Napoleon said. “You’ve been shot in the arm. Do you remember anything?” 

Illya blinked, took in the dark, cold room they were in -- underground, most likely -- and the blood trickling from Solo’s nose, the faint bruising starting to blossom under his eye. He shook his head and tried to remember something that would explain their current circumstance and found, to his great unease, that he could not. 

“N-no?” he ventured. 

Napoleon tutted under his breath. “Bastards drugged you. I’d’ve been surprised if you could. Hell, I’m surprised you can remember your name.” He paused for a moment, frowning. “You can, can’t you? Remember your name.” 

“ _ Yes _ ,” Illya hissed. “I am Illya and you are Napoleon.” 

“Wonderful. Now, how about we get out of here, hmm?” 

Illya nodded blearily and didn’t protest when Napoleon tucked a shoulder under his arm. Finally standing as close to upright as he was going to get, Illya took another look around the room they were in, frustrated when the gray stone walls proved as unilluminating as before. 

“What happened?” he slurred as Napoleon steered them towards the door. 

“We don’t really have time to go into the details,” Solo said, leaning Illya against the wall and crouching down in front of the door. “But we were looking for evidence against Oleg’s old pal Kusnetzof. Someone must have tipped tipped him off that we were coming, because they were waiting outside the safe before I even touched it.” 

“Oh,” Illya said. 

“And then they shot you and brought us here and drugged you up. I thought they wanted information initially, but I think it may have simply been intended as torture.” Solo gave a small sound of triumph and swung the door open carefully, peering outside before tugging Illya’s arm across his shoulders once more. 

“Are you alright?” Illya asked. 

“Well enough,” Solo answered. “They’ve, uh, been focusing more on you. I think they feel like you’ve betrayed them, maybe. Being Russian and all.” 

Illya swore lightly under his breath, stumbling into Napoleon a little and blinking rapidly to try to clear his vision and regain his balance. This proved mildly successful, though not as much as he would have liked. More concerning, that bit of clarity also led to Illya noticing a strange feeling of having to  _ move. _ Every time Solo paused at an intersection -- and where the hell  _ were  _ they, exactly? -- he felt an immense pressure on his knees and a tension that would not be dispelled. 

His thoughts were interrupted when Napoleon peered around a corner then whipped back, shaking his head. “There’s a guard just there. I’ll have to take care of him before he sounds the alarm.” 

“You’re not armed,” Illya said, then groaned as his knees protested, the tension in them growing. 

“I’ll manage,” Solo said, then looked closely at Illya. “It’s the drugs,” he said, resting a hand on Illya’s knee. “They make you restless. I am so sorry my friend.” 

“‘S okay,” Illya said, even though it wasn’t. 

“Wait here,” Napoleon ordered, then disappeared around the corner. There was a very brief yelp and then Solo reappeared, an NR-40 gripped tightly in his fist. Illya held his hand out expectantly and Napoleon rolled his eyes. “I don’t trust you with a knife right now,” he said. Illya huffed under his breath, then looked at his shaking hands and didn’t dispute the point. 

“What is -- what is your plan?” Illya asked.

“Don’t really have one,” Solo said. 

“Okay,” Illya said, frowning in frustration at how fuzzy his head felt. He was fairly certain that having “a plan” was important, but couldn’t for the life of him remember why. Next to him, Napoleon cursed under his breath. 

“Was expecting a bit more of a reaction, Kuryakin.” 

“Sorry.” 

“Not your fault. Let’s just try to get out of here, huh?” 

Illya nodded in agreement, groaning when his head spun. He leaned away from Napoleon and vomited painfully. Solo was trying to support him, tilting to the side and off-balanced; Illya waved him off. “‘M okay. Stay alert.” 

Napoleon lessened his support and the world spun around him, dizzyingly quick and completely obliterating Illya’s sense of equilibrium. Solo swore above him and Illya was surprised to realize that his cheek was pressed against something hard and cool and that he was no longer upright at all, though he had no recollection of falling. Someone -- Napoleon -- tugged on his arm and pried him up until he was more or less standing, and there was something blaring above his head, loud and shrill, and lights were flashing. Illya threw up again and recoiled from the noise, was frustrated when Solo hauled him up again. 

“They’re coming! We’ve got to  _ go!”  _

Illya had no idea  _ where  _ they were going, but allowed himself to be led, forced his heavy, tense legs forward, stumbled along until a door was opened and bright sunlight made him recoil. 

“Keep going! Come  _ on  _ Illya!” 

There were shouts behind them, pops that even Illya’s fuzzied mind recognized as gunshots. Napoleon propelled them forward to a steep bank that overlooked a churning river, stopping just short of it. Illya looked at him with a frown, saw that Solo had a hand clasped over his side and was white as snow. 

“Solo?” 

“Can you swim, Illya? Can you swim right now?” 

“I -- I don’t -- “ 

“Illya, you have to go. I’ll hold them off, but you have to  _ go _ .” 

“But what about you?” Illya managed. 

“I’ll be okay. You can bring back help for me, okay? But you have to go!” 

“Napoleon -- “ 

Solo stepped forward and wrapped an arm around Illya’s neck. “ _ Don’t look back,”  _ he whispered, warm breath tickling Illya’s ear, then he pushed him over the edge. 

Illya fell for lifetimes, Napoleon’s white face growing smaller and smaller until he hit the water with a crash that stole the air from his lungs and sent his head spinning. He could not tell up from down and was viscerally reminded of the last time he had drowned, in Rome, when he had slowly sunk deeper and deeper until -- 

There was no Napoleon to save him this time. 

Suddenly, blessedly, his head broke the surface and he gasped, spluttering and coughing. There were distant shouts, barely audible over the rush of water. Illya could barely remember who they were. Bad guys, definitely, maybe here to take Father away, or to shout at his mother about things he didn’t understand -- 

_ No _ . He had been with Napoleon. His father had been gone for many years. Illya shook his head, feebly tried to swim toward the shore, groaned at the persistent ache and weight in his legs, the need to move overpowering even his blurry thinking. He was starting to get tired, his arms barely responding to his brain’s commands and his wound throbbing.  His vision was growing blurry and he knew it was only a matter of time before he was unable to go on. 

“ _ No,”  _ he muttered. “ _ Get help.”  _

He had to help Napoleon. He  _ had  _ to. He was startled when he smacked into a tree, groaning as his arm was jostled, but he was able to hold onto it and just stop for a moment. He was much closer to the bank than he had realized and he started to push toward it, inching painfully along the tree until he hit the shore. 

Illya didn’t know if there were people following him or not -- Alexei had been so angry after Illya beat him at chess during school, but he was  _ not  _ going to lose on purpose, no matter what the older boy said. He hadn’t thought Alexei would go so far as to chase him home, and the rocks that had been thrown at him  _ hurt _ , especially on his arm -- 

_ No. Get help.  _ Illya stumbled up the bank, slipping on loose dirt and swearing passionately until he reached the top of the hill, chest heaving and body aching and head swirling. He collapsed to his knees and then onto his side and laid in the mud just  _ breathing  _ for a moment, just gasping in air and trying to ignore the pain and tension in his legs and the need to move warring with exhaustion. He hurt. He  _ hurt. _

But Napoleon was counting on him, might be hurt, was probably being tortured, and if Illya failed -- if he failed, he would never see him again. Not that smirk Solo gave when he was being a smart-ass, not the way his hair curled around his ears after a long hot day, not the exasperated frown he wore whenever Illya beat him at chess. 

He could not fail. 

Pushing himself to his feet, Illya started walking. He didn’t know where he was going, but he knew he needed help and he wouldn’t get it here. The grass was wet and slick under his feet, and he nearly fell almost every other step, flinging his good arm out for balance. His knees screamed with every step, excruciating with a pain unlike anything he had ever experienced, and he had to stop to vomit multiple times until he had nothing left to throw up. 

He was maybe dying. 

_ No. No! _ He would keep going. He had to. He no longer remembered why, just that something important --  _ everything  _ important -- hinged on him. He would walk until he couldn’t anymore, until he collapsed and couldn’t get up. A small part in the back of his mind, perhaps the only coherent part left, whispered that he was closer to that collapse than he wanted to admit, but he shook his head and pressed on, walked and walked, one foot and then the other, right and left, one and two and one and two andoneandtwoand _ gogethelp-- _

“Illya?  _ Scheisse _ , what happened?” 

He fell to his knees, head suddenly too heavy to hold up any longer, felt small hands -- not his, not Napoleon’s-- press into his shoulders. “No,” he murmured. “No, need  _ help.”  _

“You’re here, you’re safe, it’s okay --” 

More hands, more voices, but none of them  _ his  _ and Illya could feel his heart pounding as he struggled to tell them, to get them to  _ understand _ . “No -- you’ve got to help him -- I left him there!” 

“Illya! Illya, listen to me,” a soft voice said, and he was forced to look at someone, a woman, familiar, small and kind and feisty. 

“Gaby?” 

“Yes,” Gaby said, cupping his cheek and stroking his damp hair. “We’ll get Napoleon too, don’t you worry.” 

“I left him,” Illya repeated, his tongue growing thick in his mouth. “Left him.” 

The voices around him blurred together and then he was on his back and Gaby was patting his cheek, her voice high and tight with concern, and then -- 

And then, nothing. 

xxxx

Illya came to consciousness slowly and blearily, like he was swimming to the surface only to find himself surrounded by fog. Sharp smells, tangy and bitter in that way only hospitals smelled like. Hospital. That’s where he was. He flexed his arms, feeling a dull ache in the right, an IV in the left, and felt at his nose, only moderately surprised to find an oxygen cannula beneath it. He groaned, as much out of irritation as pain and swore softly.

“‘Bout time you woke up,” a voice next to him said, and Illya froze. 

“Napoleon?” he said. 

“Yup,” Napoleon said. He sounded tired and worn, and Illya frowned. He turned his head, which took much more effort than it should have, and was greeted by a curtain. He reached over his body with his left arm, which tugged at the IV, but he was determined and  managed to yank the curtain open with one swift yank. 

“Hey,” Napoleon said, raising one hand in a weak wave. “You’ve looked better.” 

Illya wanted to say something snarky in return, but as he looked at Napoleon, pale and shaky, bandages on his cheekbone and most likely hidden beneath his hospital gown, he found the words disappearing before they could even form. 

“Hey,” Illya answered, voice barely above a whisper. “You haven’t.” 

Napoleon blinked, then scooted toward Illya as much as he could, wincing in pain but gritting his teeth. “You think this is the best I’ve looked?” he said, but his smile was lacking its usual charm. 

“I thought you were dead,” Illya said. “Thought I’d failed.” 

“I wasn’t,” Napoleon said, reaching his hand out and tangling his fingers with Illya’s. “And you didn’t. You were brilliant.” 

“What happened?” Illya asked. “It’s all fuzzy.”

“We were investigating someone we suspected was money laundering with the KGB’s blessing -- Kusnetzof, remember?” 

Illya shook his head. Napoleon waved his hand. 

“That’s okay, bastard isn’t worth remembering. There must be a leak because he was waiting for us. He took out most of his anger on you, forget to check me for lock picks, so I got us out. At least, as far as I could.” He looked down, picking aimlessly at his blanket. 

“Not your fault. You did more than I could,” Illya said. 

“ _ You  _ were drugged. Could hardly expect you to plan an escape. Anyway, after you got out of the river, Gaby managed to track you down by the bug I hid.” 

Illya frowned. “Where was it?” 

“Belt buckle. I was proud of that one. Anyway, they found you and then you passed out -- nearly died, from what Gaby told me -- and at the same time I was found by the bug  _ you _ hid that I’d missed.”

“Where was it?” 

“Sewn into the hem of my pants. Never took you for a seamstress, Kuryakin.” 

Illya grinned. “I do not remember doing that, but I am proud I did,” he said. 

“Damn good thing you did, too. Doubt they’d have found me in time otherwise.” 

“Where were you hurt?” Illya demanded, hauling himself a bit more upright. 

Napoleon smiled. “Got shot,” he said, “a little. It wasn’t too bad. It just...wasn’t treated very nicely is all.” 

“I can imagine,” Illya said, desperately trying  _ not  _ to imagine. 

Solo grew quiet, thumb brushing over Illya’s knuckles. “I thought-- I thought I was going to lose you back there. The drugs they gave you -- they -- I just felt so  _ helpless  _ that they were targeting you, and nothing I said changed anything. I’m so sorry.” 

“Napoleon,” Illya said, “ _ Cowboy _ , you do not need to apologize to me. Not now, not ever.” 

Solo sighed. “Good. Then you won’t mind that I’ve told Gaby you’ll do her paperwork for the next month in thanks for finding you.” 

Illya let out a startled laugh and shook his head. “Fine,” he said. “But only if you join me.” 

Napoleon rolled his eyes. “Fine,” he repeated. “I can do that. But for now, I’m nearly done in, I think. Damned meds have got me sleeping more often than not.” 

“Then sleep,” Illya said. “I’ll still be here.” 

 

From the doorway, Gaby watched her partners sleep and shook her head with a sigh. “About damn time,” she said. 

 

“Couldn’t agree more,” a posh British accent said from behind, startling her. Waverly grinned when she turned to face him. “They’ll be insufferable now.” 

 

“No more than usual,” Gaby said with a grin. 

**Author's Note:**

> I did a bit of research on Soviet drugs used for torture back in the day, and two of the most common were haloperidol and chlorpromazine, one of which induced the excruciating need to move, and the other which induced grogginess. The knife Napoleon took off the guard (the NR-40) was commonly used in the Soviet Union during WWII, though I’m not sure if it would still have been used at this point in history.


End file.
